Category Archives: beach

Patonga to Mt Wondabyne Overnight Hike

The seaside village of Patonga is one of the nicest spots on Central Coast of NSW, with calm waters, golden sand and spectacular views across the water to the Northern Beaches. If you just want to rock up, have a decent feed at the pub and enjoy the serenity, that’s great, but the area is best explored by hiking along the section of The Great North Walk that leads out of town. The views are tops, the track is well maintained, and for the more adventurous, it’s possible to make it over to Mount Wondabyne for an overnight stopover in the bush.

The track is easy to find; just follow the beach east from the pub, and you can’t miss it as it winds up into the thick coverage of the headland (but click here for in-depth directions if you’re worried about getting lost and being forced to live on tree sap and wallaby dung). It’s not long before the path offers up stunning views back over Patonga, across the legendary Hawkesbury River, and out towards Palm Beach. Warrah Lookout is around 2km from the beach and fenced, but there are heaps of other spots along the walk that offer more open views (just stay away from the cliff if you’ve spent the past four hours at the pub).

Most people turn around at this point, but if you’ve got enough provivions, the walk continues another 8km up to Mount Wondabyne (and another 120km or so up to Newcastle – you’d want more than a 600mL bottle of Coke and a bag of Twisties in your backpack to tackle that, though). It’s a good walk, crossing creeks and dipping into valleys while the cicadas sing loudly and birds flutter around in the trees. Mount Wondabyne is remote and beautiful, with a pak that offers jaw-dropping views out towards the coast.

I tried to hike to Mount Wondabyne a year ago, but had to abandon my adventure when I was caught up in a ferocious electrical storm and had to hide in a cave (and subsequently spent the night drying off on my lounge whilst watching the mid-80s sporting classic, Rudy). This time, I headed out in winds that were approaching 50km/h, because I’m an idiot. The wind was smashing in and getting worse all the time as I arrived and, to make it worse, the drought meant that the ground at the campsite was so hard I could barely pitch my tent (ladies, I swear that’s the only time I’ve had that problem). As I tried to sleep, the wind was gusting in at close to 90km/h, which was loud enough to tear me from my slumber as it tried to tear my shelter off me.

It’s possible to continue along the track and spend the next night at Mooney Mooney or Somersby, but my car was back at Patonga, so just after sunrise I retraced my steps. I was tired and grumpy after a bad night’s sleep, and things were made worse when I crossed paths with a couple of good-looking Danish sheilas who were heading up to sleep at Mount Wondabyne that night. If I’d headed up a day later, I could’ve shared a tent with them, because there’s looked quality. To lift my mood, I nipped into the pub for a quick beer… which turned into an all-day session, and I ended up having to pitch my tent in a local park to spend the night.

WHERE: Patonga, at the southern end of the Central Coast, in NSW, Australia
WHY: It’s a great spot for hiking and camping

DON’T MISS: As well as unreal views out over the Hawkesbury River, the walk provides a scenic look at historic Woy Woy tip

IF YOU’RE THIRSTY: The Patonga Beach Hotel is a beautiful old pub with a remarkable view and cold beers (just don’t expect them to be cheap)

AND IF YOU’RE HUNGRY: The Patonga chippie does great food (and also sells booze). Make sure you lead up before heading into the bush, or you’ll be eating bark for dinner

WOMENFOLK: In Patonga itself, you might be able to find a pensioner who’s up for it. Up at Mount Wondabyne, a possum might be your best bet


Flic en Flac (yes, that’s the actual name of an actual place)

I’ve been to some oddly-named beaches over the years – Tasmania’s Eggs and Bacon Bay stands out – and I think I’ve found the weirdest of all time. It’s called Flick en Flack, it’s on the west coast of Mauritius, and it’s a pretty groovy place to hang out and smash a few beers. Just look at these photos, it’s awesome. Mainly, though, it’s fun to just say the name over and over again.

There’s one long beach that stretches for kilometres, plenty of palm trees, clear water, and golden sand that is mostly free of rubbish and dead birds. There are a few resorts along the water, which means there’s no shortage of plump Russians slowly turning crimson in the tropical sun. I can’t afford to stay in any of the resorts, so I’m looked down upon by the rich Europeans sipping their expensive cocktails, but I figure I won’t be the one having a heart attack in the next two months, so I win.

Yep, Flic en Flac is a top little town, and I reckon it’s a lot nicer than Grand Baie because the beach is better and it’s a bit quieter. I also prefer it because I saw three sets of boobies today. Mauritius is definitely a place where couples come to kiss each other, so a handsome single man like myself has to take what he can get. And what I’m getting right now is pissed on cheap cans of Phoenix while watching the sunset, so enjoy these photos… or just feel jealous of me. How’s the weather where you are at the moment?

The Sights and Kites of Paje

Paje and Paradise both start with the letters ‘pa’. Coincidence? Yeah, probably, but the tiny village of Paje, on Zanzibar’s southeast coast, is certainly a lovely place to spend a few days. So that’s what I’ve been doing – bludging by the pool, bludging on the beach, and acting more like a lazy tourist than the high-octane adventure traveller that everyone knows and loves.

Paje moves pretty slowly at the best of times, but it’s like Stephen Hawking on a treadmill at the moment because of Ramadan. A lot of the restaurants and hotels are shut, but I didn’t let that stop me from getting epically smashed within hours of arriving. I found a beach bar that serves icy cold bottles of Kilimanjaro and Safari, and did my best to bolster the economy while breaking my liver. I must’ve done well, because I woke up on a banana lounge in a resort that certainly wasn’t my own, wearing a sombrero. Ladies, I’m single!

I dashed out of the pool area moments before a couple of very large black gentlemen came over to throw me out, and wandered through the blurry streets, trying to make my way home. A few people I didn’t recognise said hello to me, and I pretended to remember what I’d done the night before. It was a walk of shame, Tanzania style. I’m just glad my arsehole wasn’t sore.

The beaches here are grouse, with powdery white sand, striking blue water and plenty of palm trees. After two months travelling, it was a relief to throw my towel down, whip off my clothes and settle in for a super-sized serving of sun. It would’ve been more relaxing without having some little bloke rock up to offer me weed or sunglasses every six seconds, but it’s the third world, what do you expect?

The sand is swarming with cows and elaborately-dressed Swahili gentlemen, who wander around in their red robes, clutching their big sticks in their hands. No, they’re not out there wanking, they’re holding actual sticks, which make them look like wizards. It’s definitely an unusual sight, but all part of Zanzibar’s unique charm.

The rustic beachside resorts, with their shimmering pools and comfortable cocktail bars, contrast sharply with the tiny villages and shacks that wind along the beach. It’s interesting to trek through them, waving to children and dodging motorbikes. Everyone was yelling out, “Jambo!” to me, which I assumed meant fuckwit was pleased to discover simply means hello. Thanks, guys!

The afternoons get bloody windy in Paje which, combined with the calm waters off the beach, makes it one of the best spots on the planet for kite surfing. Most days see 50 or 60 boarders out on the water, and it definitely looks fun. It’s basically paragliding for people who are scared of heights, but I didn’t tell any of the enthusiasts that in case they decided to wedge their board up my arse for doing so.

Yeah, Paje might make me feel like a tourist, but after rocking and rolling all over Africa that might be exactly what I need. I mean, what’s the point of going overseas if I can’t send photos of me relaxing on a perfect tropical beach back to all those people sufgering through the frigid Sydney winter? Don’t worry, I’m enjoying this enough for everyone!

Bintangs in Balangan


The next leg of the Drunk and Jobless World Tour™ has begun! It’s a journey that will take me from the pristine beaches of southern Bali to the skies of Candidasa, across the mountains of South Korea and deep into the beating heart of Tokyo. It’s going to be a full-on seven weeks, so I’ve decided to start off in the most relaxing of places – Balangan, which is around 45 minutes drive from Kuta, but a world away from that concrete nightmare.


Balangan’s a really nice beach, with clean, white sand nestled up against volcanic cliffs and palm trees swaying all over the place. Ramshackle restaurants look out over the deep blue sea and surfers either glide through the water, or just sit on their boards because they don’t actually know how to ride but want to say they’ve surfed in Bali.


It’s not a great beach for swimming due to the reef extending to the sand, so I just bludged around drinking Bintang and perving on the good-looking sheilas who were wandering around. I saw one I really liked the look of – a topless blonde with a bad tattoo that suggested a low sense of self worth – and rolled over to say G’day.


“We might have to shut the beach down,” I said with a cheeky wink towards her perky boobies. “Because there are a couple of white pointers around.”
I was making my third honking sound when a shadow fell on me, and I turned around to see a very large, very angry man who was covered in tattoos that even Stevie Wonder would agree look shit. He politely suggested that it would not be in my best interests to remain on the beach (actually, it wasn’t all that polite – he screamed something about removing my head and defecating down the remains of my throat, which sounds like an odd thing to do), so I decided to run away in tears and go for a walk.


During my strut around town, I saw all the usual sights of Southeast Asia – overloaded motorbikes, blokes burning shit on the side of the street, and children urinating in public. I didn’t take any photos of the urinating children because I don’t want to end up on some sort of register, so I’ve put in a picture of an interested cow instead. I also found something that looks like a prison, with barbed wire and everything, and was chased away by guard dogs while the locals laughed at me.


I sought refuge at the top of a poorly-built wooden tower that seems to serve no other purpose than to give schoolkids a place to smoke bongs and trade porno mags they found in their fathers’ closets (sorry, Dad – I swear I’ll give you back that copy of Sixty Plus one day). I spent a minute or two gazing passionately at a flock of cows milling about far below, then hurried back down to safety because the whole thing felt like it would blow over with the faintest hint of wind.


It doesn’t take long to get sick of walking in Bali because it’s as humid as a ladyboy’s crotch, so I hailed a cab and headed back to my luxurious accommodation (the driver offered me a happy-ending massage and I said no, but I was disgusted with myself when I realised he probably meant that a pretty lady would do it, not him). With the beach off limits and not much else to do, I’ve just been sitting around with a beer in my hand and a grin pasted on my stupid face. You know, sometimes this strange dance we call life isn’t too bad at all.


You son of a beach!


Sri Lanka doesn’t have a whole lot of Olympic gold medal-winning racewalkers. Alright, there’s Surav Fingabang and Karu Sukadingdong, and Anil Pushapooalong probably would’ve won in 2012 if he hadn’t been bitten by a dog during his warm up, but the fact is these people don’t like walking. There’s a reason for that – it’s really fucking hot.

Don’t have a cow, man [polite chuckles]

That didn’t stop me pointing at a spot on the map six kilometres from my hotel and saying, “I can bloody well walk there!” That’s because I’m a complete dickhead. I toodled out the door with a smile on my face and a song in my heart, aiming to get to the end of Batticaloa’s famous Dutch Bar, so that I could catch a glimpse of the legendary Batticaloa Lighthouse. After a couple of kilometres of I was huffing and puffing in the 37 degree heat, so I stopped off for a swim.

Can you spot the mermaid?

Kallady Beach is wide and sandy, and the water is warm and clear, but it’s not one of the world’s best beaches. It’s very Asian, in the sense that there’s rubbish everywhere. If you’re after a broken pen and couple of hundred bottles full of seawater, this is your place. In saying that, it’s still a beaut place for a swim on a bloody hot day, and it has some waves. which sets it apart from every beach I’ve been to since leaving Aussieland.

I made it another couple of kilometres along dusty, abandoned roads, before calling it quits. I was dehydrated and overheated to the point where I seriously considered sucking the milk out of a passing cow’s teat (even worse, it was a male cow), so I turned around and started back along the road, without ever seeing the lighthouse.

Oh, and I stopped to ride a merry-go-round. Weeeeeeeeeee!

I don’t have to stay 200m away from playgrounds in Sri Lanka

When I finally made it back to m hotel I was half-mad from exhaustion and dehydration, and brought myself back to life by swimming in the pool in my undies and doing bombs to impress some big-titted Norwegian sheilas who were hanging out there. They weren’t impressed at all and asked me to stop, which leads me to believe they’re probably lesbians – gay lesbians. happens all the time.

Havin’ a pool…

To make up for that disappointment, the sun put on a fantastic performance as it went down (I’ve described my ex-girlfriend in similar terms). The sky burned orange as I said goodbye to another brilliant day in Sri Lanka, and turned my sights towards the long, difficult journey back to Australia…


Sober in Sri Lanka


After a few days scratching around the grimiest backstreets Sri Lanka has to offer, today I finally got to take a refreshing dip in the calm, blue waters of the Bay of Bengal. I’ve set up camp in Trincomalee, a seemingly endless stretch of golden sand fringed by swaying palms. There are certainly worse places to stuff around in for a few weeks, that’s for bloody sure.

The beach is pretty grouse

I’m staying right on the beach, with nothing but the ocean to look out on. Trinco (as all the cool people say – and some cockheads, probably) isn’t heavily developed, with just a smattering of hotels along the water. Go back a street and it’s a typical Sri Lankan village – busy and dirty, with little dudes storming around for the sake of appearing busy and cows standing around shitting all over the place.

“Hey cow, I ate your mother!”

It really is a very nice place to sit back, relax, and smash a bunch of beers… Or it would be, if Sri Lanka didn’t have a bunch of weird laws that ensure that having a few drinks is a difficult endeavour. After rocking up on the bus, I just wanted a beer, and set out into the streets to find a place willing to sell me one. In Negombo they had specific shops with huge ‘BEER’ signs out the front, and in Kandy alcohol was available at the supermarket, so I didn’t think it would be hard. I was wrong.

Honestly, what is this thing? This is the sort of shit I see when I don’t drink

I swaggered into the first shop I found and asked for a beer, only to be met by confused looks, as if I’d asked if they had any chickens I could fuck. They finally told me of a place down the road that could help me out, so I trotted off down there. When I asked them, they gave me a confused look and then pointed me towards the first place.

Look how DISGUSTED I am by the lack of beer

I know Sri Lanka’s a developing country, but they need to sort their alcohol situation out. A bloke should be able to walk up the road and get himself a bloody beer on a hot afternoon. I ended up walking a round trip of 8km, only to come back empty handed and sadly sober. I settled for a beer at my hotel, which set me back $3.50 for a small bottle – hardly the cheap drinking experience I expected from one of the world’s poorest countries.

The view from the bar ain’t bad, though

That’s the story of Sri Lanka, really. While it’s a povvo country like Indonesia or Thailand, it doesn’t provide a typical ‘povvo country’ holiday experience, with cheap accommodation and food. While $25 can get a lovely, modern unit in Bali, $40 gets an absolute shithole of a room in Sri Lanka – mine has bare concrete walls, no air con, and a hole in the ground where the advertised pool was mean to be. Meals are expensive unless you’re willing to risk the street food (I have), with basic meals running north of $10 a pop.

“Move over, I’m gonna dive in the cunt!”

Trinco is a great part of the world, and if the Lankans ever sort out their pricing problems it will become a major tourist destination (and get fucked up in the process). Despite its problems, it’s a laid-back and relaxing village that is a great place to spend a relaxing few days, weeks, or even months. Right now, I’m just going to sit back on the beach with an overpriced beer, watch the sun down, and have a crack at the big-titted Pommy sheila who keeps giving me the eye. It’s a life…

Getting a Lapad Dance


I’ve been a busy boy over the last few weeks, exploring every nook and granny (hi, Beulah!) of a dozen European countries. So today I thought I’d have any easy one (thanks again, Beulah!) and spend the day lying around on a beautiful beach. Seeing as this is Europe and they wouldn’t know a proper beach if it smacked them in the face, I settled for Dubrovnik’s Lapad Beach, which can only really be called a beach by virtue of being near the water.


Where I’m from, beaches have sand and waves. Lapad has stones, concrete, and poles sticking out of the ground. Apart from that, it’s quite picturesque, with a view out over some small islands. Things got a lot better looking when I de-pantsed and started splashing about in my undies, which stayed on this time, much to the dismay of the fat Pommy women sitting near me.


The area around Lapad is home to some of the most exclusive resorts in Croatia, and so is no place for a scallywag like me. It’s a nice place to go for a walk, though, with a trail that chases the headland, showing off the natural beauty of this place. There are all sorts of restaurants with expensive meals, and bars with expensive drinks, and women with expensive tastes, and I didn’t get to sample any of them because I’m just a poor Australian.


I did see someone having a wee, though. Don’t know who the fuck it was. Seemed like a good bloke, though, and I can recommend that women have sex with him if given the opportunity.


And that was pretty much the day, with the afternoon and evening spent getting drunk. Probably even head out later, see what sorta nightlife Dubrovnik boasts. Just don’t tell Beulah – she might have a walking frame, a wooden hip, and go to bed at 7pm, but she’s very bloody possessive and has a strong slap on her for someone with osteoporosis.


Today I lost my pants at the beach


I enjoyed my last paragliding visit to Port Macquarie so much that I’ve come back – but the locals are wishing I’d stayed where I bloody well come from. But hear me out, it wasn’t my fault!

There’s less wind than on the moon today, so I decided to head to the Rainbow Beach to have a dip. It’s a top spot (although it could do with a few less dogs. The four-legged kind, I mean, not ugly women. Although, truth be told, it could do with a few less of them, too) and I had a great time reading a book and listening to some music. And then it all went wrong.

I decided to go for a swim, and chose to go in only my underpants, so my board shorts will be nice and dry when I went to the shops afterwards to buy a Curly Wurly. Bad choice, bro, bad choice. After paddling around in the vibrant water for 10 or 15 minutes, I was hit by a monster wave, and when I resurfaced, things felt a bit different downstairs. A bit lighter, a bit roomier, a bit more like my undies had been knocked off and were floating away.

I looked around frantically, and saw them being picked up by a wave. I swam in that direction, desperately trying to grab them before they disappeared forever. I reached out, stretching my arm further than it’s ever been stretched before, and finally grasped them. And that’s when I realised I’d been chasing a chunk of seaweed. My underpants were gone, and I was naked in public.

Luckily, Rainbow Beach isn’t very crowded, and I figured that, if I was quick, I could get back to my towel without being seen. I waded back to shore, carefully looking for a chance to get out. And that’s when a family of five decided to sit down to eat their lunch about five metres from where my stuff was. Mum, tide two little kiddies, and even Nana was there. Shit.

I swam around in the shallow water, terrified a fish would mistake my doodle for a worm,and hoping the family would finish their lunch and fuck off. But they had a lot of lunch and they were slow at eating it, and when they finally finished they all lay back in the sun, obviously with no intention of leaving. I was pruning up and getting tired from fighting the tide, but I couldn’t exactly barge up the sand with my water noodle flapping about.

I needed a plan. I thought about wearing the seaweed as a kind of cock cover, but decided the family would simply thought I had a lot of pubic hair and would start screaming. There are a lot of trees at the back of the bush, so I figured that if I could get to them, I could circle behind the Addams Family, reach my bag, and get my boardies back on. Well, it was worth a shot!

I swam up the beach and darted out of the water, then raced across the sand like some sort of demented crab. I dived into the bushes just as a fisherman turned my way, and barely missed being impaled on a stick. Then, like a naked Rambo, I made my way through the trees as the family started singing a song about bananas. I know, I thought it was weird, too.

I waited until they were in mid-singing, then burst out of the bushes and made a bee-line for my bag. Unfortunately, I didn’t see the log lying in my way. I smacked my shin on it and flipped like a gymnast, then rolled along the sand before ending up five metres from the family, with my sandy Willy flapping in the gentle breeze.

It was not my finest hour.

Barnstorming through Bouddi


I’ve had as many long walks as Stephen Hawking lately, and I’ve been missing the hiking, so today I strapped on my walking boots and hiked from Killcare, NSW to Little Beach… erm, which is also in NSW. I didn’t walk interstate or anything, because I had to be back in time to watch the cricket.

It’s a delightful 15km round-trip through Bouddi National Park on the Central Coast, and is an enjoyable journey for anyone looking to see the sights and have the delights of this awesome part of the world. Just watch out for the long-haired weirdos who hang around there…

Killcare Beach… right next to Kill Bill Beach

After traipsing north along the wide, open Killcare Beach, the path took me along some countryside as rugged as farmer’s wife pubic region. Steep cliffs dropped down to wild oceans as the path weedled its way along the coast.

There’s a lovely boardwalk that hangs out over the cliffs, making for both an easy and spectacular walk. A lot of effort has been put into this place, and I was oohing and ahhing like a woman on her wedding night as I made my way through heaven, under an endless blue sky.

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I missed out on seeing Tasmania’s tessellated pavement a few months ago (my brother was having Dagwood Dog withdrawals and was threatening to drive to the nearest fast food van without me), so I was astounded and delighted to see a similar set-up right here on the Central Coast. I’d like to have a similar design for my bathroom, but I don’t have 10,000 years to wait for it.

It is, indeed, hip to be square

The second beach on my epic journey was Bullimah, which is a little bit small and a little bit rough, which is also an adequate way of describing a number of women I’ve been with over the years. The last time I was at this beach, I was on a nude photo shoot with an 18-year-old blonde girl. Things weren’t quite as exciting this time, because all I did was sit down and stuff my face with cheese and bacon balls – which, to be fair, is pretty much what the 18-year-old blonde girl did.

More cheese on my face than a Bangkok hooker

The journey continued through thick bush and steep climbs, never venturing too far from the ocean and offering some astounding views out over Maitland Bay. It’s a well-made and preserved track that’s easy to walk and the equal of many more famous tracks around the world. It’s peaceful and challenging, wild and wonderful, and takes in some of the best views you’ll ever see.

This is where dreams live

After sweating in the sun for an hour or so, I was happy to hit Maitland Bay, which is my favourite place on the planet and one of the most gorgeous beaches you could ever hope to visit. I’ll do a full entry (ooh!) on it at some point, covering the colourful history of this place, so for now I’ll just say I had a grouse time clowning around in the delightful water. In underpants, too, so have a good look, ladies!

I’m too sexy for my board shorts, too sexy for my board shorts…

I would’ve liked to stay all day, but I had a legendary journey to finish, so I pushed on north towards Little Beach. This section of track is up and down like a wino’s moods, taking in the remote Caves Bay before cresting a steep hill on the way to Little Beach. It was bloody hot and I saw sweating like a vegetable in a wok (that’s my second disabled person joke for this blog!) as I swaggered along, but the remarkable visuals made it all worthwhile. Just as remarkable was the fact I kept my trousers on the whole time!

Sorry, Nobby.

Little Beach…Possibly named after Kevin Rudd’s penis

Finally, with my legs weary and my supply of ice-cold beer a distant memory, I stumbled upon Little Beach. The moniker suits it, because it is quite little, so thumbs up to whoever spent all of 30 seconds naming it. There’s a really nice camp ground right next to the beach, but no big-titted bisexual Swedish girls invited me into their tents, so I took the track back to the main road.

The 7.5km back was a slog but, like returning to your work desk to find someone has left a fun-sized Mars bar there while you were having a wee, there was something brilliant to break up the monotony. Hi, God, it’s me, Row-Row. Thanks for the sunset!


The burqas are better in Langkawi

BAM! There it is –- hangover hell. When I first opened my eyes, I didn’t know where I was or why it felt as if a group of troublemaking kids had been kicking my head in. I was in a wooden hut with a bunch of snoozing drunks, and by the time I stumbled out into the bright sun and had a slash against a tree, it was after midday. There was half a can of beer on the ground so I downed it in one and headed down to the beach.


After a swim in the sparkling water and a good lie down, I was feeling pretty bloody good and spent the rest of the day doing as little as possible. It wasn’t just because of the bender the night before (I’m talking about the piss-up, not about any homosexual gentlemen I may or may not have danced with) -– after a few weeks of doing stuff non-stop, I just needed a day of lazing around. The fact there was a steady stream of good-looking birds hanging out on the other sunlounges didn’t hurt, either.

The lines of ladies are just out of shot

As the sun was heading towards the horizon, I took a stroll up to Chenang Beach, which is where all the action is meant to be, – carefully avoiding Sonjay’s place on the way. The beach reminded me of Patong in Thailand –- people crawling all over the place, jet skis hooning around in the water and plenty of noise and excitement. My brain was soup, and the next thing I knew, I’d handed over a couple of Space Bucks and was getting strapped in for a spot of parasailing!

It was a weird sensation as the speedboat took off and I started soaring into the sky after it, a sensation that was heightened by the remnants of my hangover. My brain couldn’t really wrap itself around the fact that I was was hanging in the sky, 100m above the ocean, with only a poorly-fitted strap between me and a splattery end. It was fucken aswesome though, and I got an unbelievable view of the little tropical island, and it all ended too soon.

“Who needs paragliding when I can get some Asian dude in a boat to drag me around? Weeeeeeeee!”

When I reached terra firma, I was treated to one of the wackiest sights I’d ever seen -– a muslim sheila in a full-on, head-to-toe burqa, getting ready to go parasailing. It was bizarre, this chick was so covered up I couldn’t even see her hands or her eyes, and here she was ready to fly off into the sky. It was kinda sad, too, the fact that she was in this tropical paradise with the last of the day’s sunlight pouring in, and she was covered in a fucking sheet.

And then when she took off a gust of wind hit and her whole outfit flew up in the air and me and everyone else on the ground got a great view of everything underneath the sheet, including her hairy box. That image went straight to the wank bank, and I’m pretty sure she’s heading straight for a stoning when she gets back to the Middle East.

Hey, bro, the sunset’s that way

I took it easy for the rest of the night, first booking a snorkeling adventure for the next day and then going to a nice little restaurant on the beach right next to my resort. My curry didn’t come close to the grub Sonjay served up the night before, but the view, the wicked cocktails and the good-looking waitress made up for that. Not being forced to have sex with an Indian sheila with and arse like the Great Dividing Range was good, too.

Papadum preach, I’m in trouble deep

I asked the waitress for a Screaming Orgasm, and then added, “And I’m not talking about the cocktail!” She gave me a funny look and went back to the kitchen, and a few minutes later I heard all sorts of Malaysian screaming. And some of it wasn’t Malaysian – I heard the bloke she was talking say words like cunt and cocksucker, which I assume mean the same in any dialect. Then there was quiet, and the waitress came back with an unusual cocktail in a very tall glass. I’m a trusting fella, so I took a decent slug, but it tasted awful, so I paid my money and left.

The offending drink

Not long after that, my tummy started to rumble, and I started puking and pooing a substance that looked frighteningly similar to the curry I’d tucked into. Those bastards had poisoned me as revenge for my hilarious joke! So, of course, I took the high road – I waddled back to the restaurant, climbed up on top of one of their tables and proceeded to empty myself all over it. That’ll teach ’em.

I was going to put up a photo of me vomiting, but decided this would look nicer